5 times Sherlock wanted to hug John and one time he did
by Aztecwarfareandcrumping
Summary: 5 Times Sherlock wished to show physical affection to his blogger, and one time his transport won the fight with his intellect.


**Notes: This was written before series 2, so we didn't know how The Pool Scene ended, so I made it vague and guessed, though obviously I guessed wrong.**

1.

Sherlock Holmes wasn't a touchy-feely person. Anyone could tell you that. He had always hated it when Mummy would rub at the chemical stains on his hands, and he detested any girl who tried to get within two meters of his person. But his new flat mate was different. With John, he got the feeling... well, he wasn't sure what he got the feeling of. But after a long day of chasing cabbies across London, nearly dying, and then having Chinese with his new flat mate, Sherlock felt content and like he could actually sleep for a few hours. They walked into the flat -their flat, Sherlock thought with a trill of happiness- and shrugged out of their coats.

"You need the shower?" John asked, still grinning a bit from their conversation at the Chinese place.

"No, go ahead." Sherlock answered, a careful smile almost showing itself. The doctor nodded his goodnight and turned towards the stairs.

"John?" Sherlock called out. He wanted to thank him. He wanted to... No. Sherlock didn't hug people. Sociopaths didn't hug people. It was not something he did. So when John turned around, Sherlock just shook his head.

"Never mind. 'Night."

2.

It was a difficult case: Sherlock hated this kind. The _caring_ kind. Give him a cold-hearted murder case, and he'd solve it in a minute. But this...

"Tell me again." he ordered Lestrade.

The inspector shifted his weight. "Male, 42, married with wife and 2 kids. High-up in the business world, very.. *cough* close with his secretary. Hadn't been living with his wife for 3 months. The kids are 19 and 13. Boy and girl. We found him here, in the car park stuffed in the dumpster. Messy job... you can see several footprints in blood. He must have been killed elsewhere, then the body was dragged here."

Sherlock paced, scanning the scene with his icy eyes. "Suspects?"

"Several colleagues, a few people from school..."

"His wife?"

Everyone turned towards the up-until-this-point-silent man standing on the edge of the scene. John shuffled his feet, clearly wishing he wasn't the centre of attention.

"What?" Sherlock asked, coming forward.

"H- his wife?"

Sherlock tilted his head. "Why...?" he asked slowly.

John cleared his throat. "She was.. well, upset. That he had hurt her. And the kids. With the other woman. She.. uh, wanted to get revenge. Not for herself. For her kids. The whole "Mother bear protecting her cub" thing."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed for a moment as if thinking. Then he started nodding. "Yes. Yes! That's it! John, sometimes you are surprisingly un-stupid!" Sherlock took a step forward before he stopped himself. What was he about to do? Sherlock dashed off in the other direction, barking at Lestrade. He glanced back at John, who looked a bit hurt. Oh well. John should know by now that Sherlock didn't hug people.

3.

Harry had called: Sherlock could tell by the way John's shoulders stooped and the way the doctor was slinking around the flat like an injured rabbit. Sometimes the lack of self-confidence would last for days. Sherlock hated that woman. He hated everything about her from her drunken ways to her sharp insults that hurt his.. ahem.. that hurt John. John walked into the kitchen.

"Tea?" he asked Sherlock tentatively.

Sherlock grunted. As John turned away, Sherlock took a tiny step forward, his arms coming up just a bit before he stopped himself and reached for a scalpel. He shook his head, trying to clear it of any thoughts of hugging John to make him feel better.

4.

Sherlock hated it when John had nightmares. Not because they woke him (not that he ever slept at night), but because of the dilemma that he was faced with. This night's round of torturous visions must have been particularly bad because John's cries were louder than normal. The pitiful pleas wrung Sherlock's non-existent heart in a way that he didn't like to admit. Sherlock's bare feet bore him to John's room before he had a chance to think. He stood with his forehead against the door-frame for several minutes before the cries intensified and his resolution broke. He opened the door (a bit too quickly) and stumbled over the door jamb. John woke with a startled yelp, his eyes wide and staring in the darkness. He caught sight of the detective awkwardly re-gaining his balance in the doorway.

"Sh-Sherlock?" he asked hesitantly.

Sherlock stood up straighter, clearing his throat. "I, uh, thought I *hem* heard something."

John looked away. "Sorry." he whispered.

But that wasn't what Sherlock wanted: he didn't want to make John feel bad. He came forward, not quite sure what he was doing, and knelt down at the side of John's bed. He folded his hands on the mattress and rested his chin on top of them, looking up at John with an innocent expression of worry.

"Do you want me to stay with you?" he asked gently.

John seemed a bit taken back by this for a moment, then nodded. John settled back onto his pillow, taking deep breaths. At one point he started hyperventilating again, but Sherlock's hand shot out and held onto his gently, just a light pressure reassuring John of his presence.  
When Sherlock was sure John was asleep, he stood up and gently extracted his hand. The doctor breathed out a small sigh, but stayed asleep. Sherlock leaned down, one arm going around John's shoulders, the other around his back before he stopped himself and exited the room quickly. He spent the rest of the night curled in a ball just outside of John's room.

5.

It was after several hours at the police station that Sherlock and John finally got home after the whole incident with General Chang. Sherlock leapt up the stairs, John following at a much slower pace. Sherlock's mind was still racing with the possible outcomes that could have met him in the tramway when he opened the door and came up short.

The yellow paint on the windows.

Sherlock felt his breath start to hitch again, and dashed over to the windows, pulling the curtains shut so hard that they almost ripped. He had just finished and was standing with his eyes closed and his head down when John's voice, still a bit rusty from shock and nerves, startled him.

"Sherlock?" he asked carefully.

Sherlock looked up, a strange expression on his face. John let out just a tiny breath of air.

"You're upset we didn't catch General Chang." Sherlock couldn't quite place the feeling in John's voice: not quite disgust, not quite disappointment, but not quite right.

John cleared his throat. "I mean, I thought it went well. Sarah's fine, we got most of them, blew their cover. And... well... I'm still alive."

Sherlock made a hideous choking noise and ran over to him, his face all screwed up. John flinched back, not quite sure what Sherlock was doing. Sherlock's hands came to grip John's shoulders, but then the detective caught himself and froze, a moment of horrible vulnerability passing across his features before he could force his mask of passivity back on.

"Yes, well. Not too shoddy." the detective admitted. The vice-like grip on John's shoulders dissolved.

John excused himself soon after that, and went up to take a shower and then go to bed. Sherlock puttered around the kitchen until he heard John's bed creak and the light go out. Then he dashed into the living room with a bucket of water and a sponge. He had to get that hateful yellow paint off before another minute passed. It was eating into his brain, taunting him with what could have happened. Sherlock worked away at the windows vehemently for several minutes before he realised that he was crying. He dashed at the window, but his finger painfully caught on a splinter and he cursed. He sank down onto his knees, inspecting his finger, but then found himself curled up on the floor, sobbing for all he was worth.

He stayed wrapped in a tight ball of arms and legs and misery with tears rolling down his gaunt cheeks until the morning light streamed through the hateful windows.

+1.

It had been several weeks since John had been home. Though Sherlock had his minor injuries and scrapes, John was the one who took the brunt of the blast during The Swimming Pool Incident. John hadn't seen Sherlock since he had first woken up. The detective had been glad enough to see him then, and even quite fond (in his own unaccustomed way), but now John worried that Sherlock didn't really care. It could have just been an act. Or maybe he just felt guilty. After all, the man hadn't come to check on John during his lengthy hospital stay.

By the time John finally stood at the door on Baker Street, a sense of dread had settled around him and set up camp. He walked up the 17 steps, trying not to make too much noise. When he came into the flat, the first thing he noticed was that it was remarkably messy. The next thing he noticed was Sherlock, standing by the window and seeming to look out of it, though his eyes were glazed over. John felt a great leap of affection for the strange, impossible, brilliant man in front of him.

"Hey." he said. His mind had gone blank: what else could he say?

Sherlock looked up and saw John. A million different expressions crossed his face in one moment: surprise, delight, worry, guilt, happiness, and then an overriding joy and fondness.

"I didn't know when you'd get back." the tall man admitted softly.

"They just let me out today." John looked around the mess he affectionately called their flat. "Any leads on Mor-... him?"

Sherlock grimaced (the same grimace he made when Molly gave him her coffee, John noticed with amusement). "Nothing yet. He seems to have disappeared since... that night..." Sherlock cleared his throat. "But, you? Are you all better? Ready to go rid the world of consulting criminals?"

John grinned, and Sherlock realised just how fond he was of his doctor. "Ready when you are. Only, Sherlock? Promise me no more swimming pools."

Sherlock gave a sort of choking laugh, then they rushed towards each other, colliding in the centre of the living room in a mass of jumpers and starched shirts and lonely arms. Sherlock's arms wound around John, one around his shoulders, the other around his waist. John's arms came around Sherlock's waist, squeezing much too hard, though neither cared. John buried his face in Sherlock's neck, and smiled a bit when Sherlock pressed his cheek against his sandy waves of hair.

"Y' miss me?" John asked, laughing gently.

"Bloody hell, John." Sherlock gasped out, his voice thick with fondness. John smiled.

Sherlock's nose buried itself in John's hair, and John could have sworn he felt Sherlock silently crying. Sherlock's long, dexterous fingers rubbed John's jumper back and forth between them, reassuring the detective that John really was there, in all his itchy glory.

"The flat's a mess." John whispered, caressing Sherlock's disheveled curls.

"Couldn't think. Not without you here. I was going to clean it up..." Sherlock dropped off, taking in a deep breath as he squeezed John closer still.

"Shh... it's okay. I'm here now."

Both the detective and his doctor made a vow to never let the other out of their sight again.

"It was quiet without you." Sherlock whimpered, which was as good as a protestation of love, for him. As John continued to wind his fingers through Sherlock's curls and the detective continued to hold onto his doctor, Sherlock realised that he had finally done it: he had hugged John.


End file.
